


Moonshine

by Demus



Series: He Walks in Wildness [2]
Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: Camping, Fluff, Interspecies, M/M, Making Out, Summer, Teenagers, Underage Drinking, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 09:23:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5823196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demus/pseuds/Demus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Er, Rhett, is it a good idea for you to Change when you can't walk?”</i><br/>'The Leg-Humping Incident' or, 'Link is about to discover that, much to his dismay, werewolves actually can't hold their liquor'.</p><p>The summer stretches ahead of them, filled with endless possibilities, and the boys have a very specific plan for getting the fun started.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moonshine

**Author's Note:**

> For context; Rhett is a werewolf. Werewolves aren't common, but there are enough of them in this 'verse that no one gets out the torches and pitchforks. Link is not a werewolf, despite Rhett's best efforts. For more context, please do have a look at _Moon Drunk_ , which might help a little.
> 
> There was a throw-away reference to a 'leg-humping incident' in _Moon Drunk_ , and from it came this unabashed silliness. Alas, the humping itself got slightly overshadowed by the boys goofing around and cuddling. For the purposes of this fic, I have decided that werewolves can't handle alcohol very well. Their half-wolf bodies just can't metabolise it properly for important plot reasons. Also, I'm not entirely clear on the chronology of Link's childhood and adolescence or exactly when he had a stepfather or step-siblings, so the details are fairly vague, sorry about that! 
> 
> Oh, and they're camping again because I am the one-trickiest of the one-trick ponies.
> 
> Disclaimer; This is a work of fiction starring fictionalised versions of real people. No claims are made about the people in this story or the relationship here portrayed.

“This is awesome.”

“Shh.”

“Sorry. But it's just so awesome!”

“It's going to be a lot less awesome if we get caught, shut up!”

“Dude, there's no one around. Don't you trust this nose?”

Link pauses in the act of lifting a case of his stepfather's beer into the trunk of Rhett's car and turns to fix him with a glare, hissing, “The nose is fine. It's the huge dork attached to it that I don't trust.”

Rhett grins. “You mean the huge dork who always knows when to cover your mouth if your folks walk by when we're-”

“ _Shut up_.”

If only he didn't smell so good when he was blushing, Rhett wouldn't have to tease him quite so much (all that hot blood blooming under his skin, embarrassment bright like iron, rust-red, and all he wants to do is _taste_ ). Link's nervous - it's not like he can smell emotions, exactly, but everyone sweats when they're nervous, salt and adrenaline, and something inside Rhett pricks its ears at the scent. There's little chance of them being caught, Link's parents have gone to dinner and there's no way they'll miss one measly case, but Link doesn't have the luxury of an older brother to take the heat for these harmless (and yes, technically _illegal_ ) transgressions.

Case safely stowed, Link slams the trunk shut and turns to him, shrugging the brief strain out his shoulders. “What snacks did you bring?”

“All of 'em.”

That earns him an eye-roll. “Gosh, what a surprise.”

Sometimes, he wishes he could blame the enormous appetite on his bestial side. Unfortunately for him, Link's made a point of being incredibly well-read on the subject of lupine behaviour, so pretty much all of his BS falls on deaf ears. “Hey, this is a big moment! These are uncharted waters, my friend, we can't be sailing off this dock with empty stomachs!”

The colourful metaphor causes Link's eyebrows to climb to his hairline, but there's a smile playing on his lips as he replies, “Like your stomach is ever empty, man.”

Pleased that he's chased away a little of his apprehension, Rhett doesn't offer a counter argument. Instead, he digs his hand into his pocket for his keys, dangling them out in front of Link's nose like they're a tennis ball and his friend is the one who has a tail to wag. “The usual place?”

Link nods. “The usual place.”

'The usual place' is a bit of a drive, but it's worth the hour in Rhett's beat-up old car, windows rolled down to let the humid summer air blast in because the air-con hasn't worked on the thing since before either of them were born. The radio spits and crackles with odd bursts of songs and speech, forever seeking a permanent channel and never quite finding one. They've listened to all their tapes hundreds of times, so they ignore the mess of sound and chatter back and forth; their plans for the long summer that's opened up before them, where they'll go if Rhett''s car doesn't expire, which girls they're going to chase now that the looming pressure of the school caste system has been set aside till September. Link slouches in his seat, his feet propped up on the dash, and he relaxes more and more with every mile that passes beneath them, his head dropping back onto the headrest, exposing the line of his throat as he talks. 

The wolf stirs. Rhett's teeth ache with wanting to sharpen.

Link forgets sometimes, because he's human and humans are reckless with their bodies. He forgets, because he doesn't walk on a wolf's paws and despite the years that they've been friends, he doesn't understand what his carelessness does to Rhett. The wolf sees only invitation, only submission, surrender to the greater power; Link's just trying to get comfortable.

Rhett shakes the tickle of fur out of his eyes, offers a silent prayer of thanks for the waning half-moon and loosens the white-knuckle grip he has on the steering wheel.

The sun is shading golden when they pull off the road onto a dirt track, the bright glare of midday long since having given way to the warmer hue of late afternoon, and the conversation drifts to easy silence as they bump and rattle their way into the wood. There's a clearing about a mile in, tricky to navigate if you don't know the way, hardly a tyre-rut to be seen in the dust. The engine sputters as they crawl along, desperately unhappy with this rough treatment, burbling along in first gear and sagging on its weary suspension.

“Can't wait till this thing dies and I can get Cole's truck.”

Link hums his agreement. He sits up when they crest the final rise, taking hold of the handle by his head as Rhett spins the wheel, guiding the car between the trees until they open up into the clearing, _their_ clearing, nothing more than a patch of grass and a stream. They park up, each taking a moment to survey the surroundings; it's only been a year since they discovered it, but they've begun every full moon night here since then, and Rhett feels something uncoil inside him, a shiver pulling goosebumps up from his skin as the familiar scents engulf him, anchor him.

“Right.” Link shucks himself free of his seatbelt, shaking off their brief reverie, clambering out and heading straight for the trunk. 

Rhett follows. By unspoken agreement they unpack the tent first, experience having taught them the folly of trying to set the damn thing up in the dark. It's more for Link's benefit, obviously. Rhett will tolerate the tent in winter and fall, but summer nights are spent under the stars, curled up tight with his nose tucked under his tail. If he's feeling particularly lonely or mischievous, he makes sure to whimper and scratch and whine until the noise drags Link out of the tent to see what's wrong, then he gets to pin him and use him as a pillow. It's a win-win, really. For him, that is.

Wolves don't like to sleep alone. 

Once the tent is up, they haul their plentiful supplies from the car, piling the bags of junk food and setting the case down amongst them with reverence; to Rhett, it feels like a right of passage, like something momentous. He wonders if they should light a fire for the occasion.

Across the clearing, Link pauses in the act of unfolding his camping chair, catching his attention, and shakes his head. “Not a good idea,” he says firmly, and Rhett wonders what gave away his thoughts. “I don't want the lasting memory of my first beer bein' a towerin' inferno.”

“Hey, _you_ might be a total lightweight, but _I_ -”

“Have never been drunk before either.”

Rhett opens his mouth, realises he doesn't have a counter argument and settles for glaring at his friend. Link's sternness disappears instantly and he winks, pursing his lips in a smug grin. “Aw yeah, point one for the Linkster!”

“Maybe the Linkster should crack the first can then,” he replies, tapping the box. “Since you're such an expert and all.”

“Maybe I will.” Link sets his chair down with a flourish and makes his way over, rolling his hips in an exaggerated swagger that nearly drops him on his face when he trips on a patch of uneven ground. Rhett is moving before the trip even starts, his eyes catching the minute flex of muscles as Link's ankle begins to turn, and his friend barely has time to yelp before Rhett catches and rights him.

It's Rhett's turn to grin, raising an eyebrow in mocking imitation as the human looks up in surprise. “Now there's a saying about pride and falls...”

“Jerk.”

Link elbows himself free. He turns his face up away from Rhett, making a point of ignoring his amusement, and the werewolf lets him go, resisting the urge to nip the flush that stains his neck. Link kneels to tug the box open and retrieve a can, which immediately transports Rhett's mind to a very specific dark place, then he cracks it open and takes a big swig.

The face he pulls is brilliant, scrunched nose and curled lips before his tongue lolls out of his mouth, as if the wind could blow the taste away. “Yeuch!” he complains, scrabbling for a bag of chips. “Oh man, now I know why there's always a cooler for these things!”

Rhett giggles, ignoring his friend's baleful stare as he stuffs far too many chips into his mouth and hurriedly crunches through them. “We could put 'em in the creek?” he suggests, when the sound of chewing finally dies down. “We've got that old fishing net and some spare tent pegs, I'm sure we could rig something up.”

He loves making things with Link; heads bent together, hands moving in mirrored harmony, Rhett leading with ideas and Link painstakingly tying off the loose ends with all animosity forgotten. It's even better out here in the open, away from the noise and clutter of the classroom, the scent of Link's skin and breath filling his nose as they cobble together a sort of beer-bag out of the net and some random bits of line, then dunk it into the slow-flowing water and secure it with the tent pegs. Link smiles up at him when they're done, his tongue poking between his teeth, and Rhett wants to drop onto his forearms and wag his tail in invitation to play. 

Link doesn't speak Wolf, or Dog, but he knows the inside of Rhett's head pretty well, so it's no surprise when he springs up, arms outstretched, and bears Rhett to the ground. They roll, all knees and elbows, tussling and grabbing. Link is a wriggly sort of fighter, twitching out of any grip Rhett gets on him, but Rhett knows that his sheer size will win out if he can get Link under him. His friend is laughing, squirming, joyous, and Rhett's mouth is unsure whether to yip or laugh along. They rock back and forth, scrapping like puppies, clumsy and rough.

It all ends somewhat abruptly when they roll into the stream.

Rhett surges upright, the cold snatching the breath from his lungs, and he flails blindly when he comes back up to the air; he can hear Link spluttering and splashing next to him, cursing imaginatively. Link's hand wraps around his wrist, warm in the chill, and they tumble onto the bank in limp, wet unison.

“Y- Y- Your f- f- fault,” Link stammers.

Rhett opens his mouth to protest this injustice, but he is interrupted by Link scrambling on top of him, all angles and edges, dripping wet, the heat of him shocking through their soaked clothes. Water has plastered his dark hair flat to his head, and the glow of the ever-sinking sun catches in the rivulets that line his face, brightening the blue of his eyes. He looks like he wants to say something (probably another unfounded accusation) but Rhett's mouth has dried up and his lips ache for the distance between them, so he lunges up into a kiss that stops his friend's speech in its tracks.

Kissing Link is like sinking into his wolfskin, like coming home and waking up and stepping out onto winter's first crisp snowfall. Kissing Link is like the hot spray of a rabbit's blood, like the sweet harmony of an answering howl in the moonlight. Kissing Link is like pounding through the forest on silent feet, the whole world theirs for the taking.

Kissing Link is _awesome_.

It's not like kissing girls. With girls, he never knows where to put his hands or what to do with his arms, but Link meets his kisses head-on, fingers snatching at his clothes. Link is tough enough for Rhett's full strength, for claws and teeth and a wolf's hard-won muscle. He smells amazing, earthy-rough and fresh as mown grass, his skin rich with the ripe amber warmth of his own scent. Rhett feels his throat tighten with a snarl, pushes himself up into a sitting position, knocking Link back into his lap, running his free hand up his friend's sodden back to hold him close. Link tilts his head as he re-settles himself on his knees, his lips parting, and Rhett tests his teeth against the tongue that licks into his mouth, startling the human, making him squirm. There's a stirring deep within him, the beast that pants and howls and walks in wildness, the beast that wants to _pounce_ and _bite_ and _shred_ and _own_.

Link pulls back, rests a quick finger on his mouth to stop him when he tries to follow. His friend's lips are kiss-red, kiss-swollen, his body heaves with lust-thickened breaths and he's ready, Rhett can smell it on him, he's so _ready_...but his finger in on Rhett's lips and he's shaking his head, shaking the water from his hair, shaking the lust from his eyes. “Down, boy,” he says, a smile in his voice. It's not clear who he's talking to, himself or Rhett, but the wolf drops obediently to its haunches, ears forward, tongue lolling.

Rhett sighs. “Buzzkill,” he says, but there's no heat in it, no accusation. Link rolls his eyes, tossing his bangs back out of his face, and hauls himself up out of Rhett's lap.

They strip down to their boxers by mutual consent, slinging their clothes over branches to drip-dry. Rhett briefly considers Changing, wolves being far more suited to getting rid of excess water, but Link takes his hand, his head ducking shyly as he leads Rhett to the sunniest spot in the clearing; there’s another blush blooming in his skin, even richer now there’s no cotton scent to block it, self-consciousness and embarrassment and the ever-present banked heat of arousal. They lie together on the grass to dry, the lazy sunlight pooling heavy, sticky in the humid air. With the trees pressed so close around them, there’s barely a hint of wind. Rhett can hear the rustling of little things ( _prey things_ ) going about the complicated business of living, far too secretive for human ears. Link is quiet next to him, the rush of his breath slowing, turning drowsy; Rhett envies him the feline ease with which he sleeps, _run, pussycat, run_ , but it's hard to be truly irritated when he lies so still and contented by Rhett’s side.

Wolves keep close that which they love.

Rhett yawns. Link’s hand is warm in his, falling slack as drifts in and out of sleep. Rhett’s palm is sweaty, salt-scent that coats his friend’s skin, marking him. If he were human, he’d probably feel awkward about that, he muses. If he were human, he might have a better grasp on the weird boundaries that they build between themselves, the distance they both loathe and crave. 

Humans break the things they love. 

The sun is almost starting to set by the time they've dried out. Somewhat predictably, Link has moved while he was sleeping, curling up on his side against Rhett, his head tucked into the werewolf's shoulder. He blinks himself awake, the tickle of his eyelashes giving the movement away, and Rhett squeezes his hand as he begins to move. “Not s'posed to get up till you're kissed, Sleeping Beauty,” he teases.

Link chuckles. “Ain't you s'posed to wearin' your grandma's clothes?”

“Nah, that makes it too obvious for the woodcutters.” Rhett releases Link's hand, shrugging him off so he can sit up, his stomach having decided that it has had quite enough of this mushy crap and wants feeding. “Want to get started?”

They eat first, the day still warm enough for Rhett to be comfortable in just his boxers. Link, much to Rhett's disappointment, does get dressed. He eats slowly, taking one bite to Rhett's ten, and they've made their way through a good third of what they brought with them when Rhett sees his friend's gaze wandering to the creek and the makeshift beer-net. “Hey,” he says, nudging Link's knee with his foot. “You wanna try again?”

This time, they both grab a can. Rhett smirks at the nervous anticipation in Link's face, clinks their cans together and says, “Down in one?”

It's a challenge, one he knows the human won't refuse. Link doesn't disappoint. His lips set into a mulish line, determined to anything Rhett thinks he can do, and so they toss their heads back together and chug.

It is awful.

Okay, so it's not enough to make him gag, but it's bitter and alien, almost too frothy. He's not used to cold drinks being savoury or sour and it's actually a bit of a struggle to get it all down. The can goes flying when he's done, cast aside with the total lack of respect it deserves, and he follows Link's earlier example by diving for the snacks to take away the taste. “Urgh,” he says, around his mouthful. Link is still swallowing, his Adam's apple bobbing in a mesmerising fashion until he's finished.

“It's better cold,” the human manages to reply, in between gasped breaths. His lips are twisted into an expression of disgust but he's already reaching into the net for another can. “You want to go again?”

“...Give me a minute.”

Link cuts him a disbelieving look. He shrugs, reaching for another handful of chips. “It's either that or puke, man.”

“Huh,” Link cracks the can open and take a swig. “Maybe it's one of those things that gets better the more you do it?”

Rhett's not so sure about that. His stomach feels like a whole next of fire ants set up home in there, churning uneasily. He wants to burp, but the fire ants are crawling an acid trail all the way up his gullet and he's close enough to vomiting that he's not going to try it. His mouth feels dry, furred with the salt-coating from the chips, and he decides the creek is his best bet for salvation. It takes an unusual amount of effort to stand – his limbs feel like they're moving in slow motion, oddly distant – and the moment he straightens up the world takes a crazy spinning nose-dive, tilting on its axis, causing him to sway. 

“Whoa, whoa, hey, Rhett, are you okay?”

Link sounds worried. Rhett's body starts turning without his permission, before he can get his clumsy thoughts lined up, and he staggers, raising his hands to balance himself as he totters. Warmth then, the warmth of a hand and a shoulder to brace against. He leans on his friend, mildly surprised by how quickly Link got to him, and turns to rest his forehead on Link's. “Must've got a strong one,” he mumbles. It feels like his lips have joined his legs in unwarranted rebellion.

“They're all the same, you goof,” comes the reply. Link sounds amused, but there's a low, anxious note in his scent, in the way he holds his body, a note that strikes against Rhett's nerves, makes his ears want to press back against the sides of his head.

“'m fine,” he says. He lifts a hand to deliver a reassuring pat and somehow gets tangled in Link's shirt. “Aw, damnit.”

It must be the altitude. It can't be the drink, he's only had _one_. Maybe it would be better if he were closer to the ground...

“Gotta Change,” he says, pushing at Link with clumsy hands until the human steps reluctantly away.

“Er, Rhett, is it a good idea for you to Change when you can't walk?”

Link might have a point but the world is too weird to his eyes, to his nose, he can't _see_ , and things make more sense when he's lupine. It takes more effort than usual. The Change is as normally as easy as breathing, as natural and dependable as his heartbeat, but the cotton wool coating his brain makes his hands forget how to be paws, confuses his skin, and it seems an age before he blinks the world back into focus, grey-shaded to the eyes but kaleidoscopic to the nose. Link is a cloud of familiar scents, teal-tinted, warm-hued, and his tail begins to wag as he wanders over to his friend, a little steadier on four legs than he was on two. Link's hands bury themselves into his fur when he's in reach and he hops up onto his back legs, bracing his paws on Link's chest and sniffing at his face, taking in the bitter strangeness of his breath.

 _Pack_. 

Rhett begins to lick his packmate's cheek, ignoring his protests as he works his way down to Link's neck, layering him with scent; the hands in his fur close into fists, tugging, but he doesn't mind. There might be other wolves out here, they need to know Link is _pack_ not prey.

“Urgh, why do you always do this? So freaking gross, man. You didn't even take your boxers off.”

His tail only wags faster. The words all blend into each other, a meaningless garble of sound, but the tone is all fondness. Rhett's thoughts still feel fuzzy, off-kilter, but Link is pack and pack means safety. The human's hand scratch in tiny, delicious circles and for a long moment, Rhett is tempted to drop to his back, show his belly to those lovely fingers.

There would be no danger in it, no shame, and he knows his packmate is strong enough to protect him, but there's something restless running under his skin that makes him want to knock the human down, to cover him with his body and hold him still, hold him safe. There's heat in it, frustrated heat, the heat of being denied, and he's moving to right that wrong, paws clutching, body hunching until he's close enough to rub...

“Rhett? Rhett, what are you- Oh God!”

There's surprise there, a sort of horrified surprise that drags up against Rhett's protective instincts, but he only clings tighter, moves faster; it feels good, oh so good, Link's scent in his nose and his body held close, all of Rhett's thwarted desire tangling him closer still, faster still.

“Oh God, oh God, you're, Rhett you're- Rhett, stop it, this is-” Rhett is dimly aware that the human's voice is rising, the words running together, and he drops his head onto Link's shoulder, nuzzling into his neck as he pushes, pushes, pushes....

“I am never letting you live this down.”


End file.
